Milk
by darthsydious
Summary: prompt-fill for Mizjoely. 'you run in looking really panicked and you ask for 6 gallons of milk why' au. Sherlolly. Revenge is a dish best served at room temperature.


Molly lifted her head, not even bothering to close her book as she regarded the panting consulting detective in her living room.

"Would you like to run that by me again?"

"I need six gallons of milk, _immediately_."

"Okay, Sherlock," she set her book down slowly. She looked weary and Sherlock set aside his panicked state for a moment. "How much did you take this time?"

"What? No!" he frowned. "I'm not high, for heaven's sake-"

"Then what on _earth_ do you need six gallons of milk for?!"

"To fill a bathtub!" Molly looked befuddled and not at all moving towards the door for her coat. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"And you want skin as lily-white as the Empress Sisi, right?" Molly asked with a twinkle in her eye.

"No!" Now he was exasperated. He grabbed her hand, tugging her towards the door; he took her coat off the hook, handing it to her. "We need to hurry though."

"What on earth for?" He wrapped her scarf around her neck.

"So you're coming along?"

"Alright, I'll bite, you've got me curious."

"Excellent! There's not a moment to lose!" He grabbed her by the hand, slamming the door shut behind them.

"But what do we need all that milk for?"

Sherlock refused to answer her, simply flagging down a cab and instructing the driver to take them to the nearest shop at top speed. After they had depleted a corner store's last eight gallons of milk

"I doubt six will be enough," Sherlock said in excuse, they lugged the bags back to the cab and Sherlock delivered a second address, one Molly was not familiar with.

They came upon a beautiful building, apparently shut up.

"Who lives here?"

"Never mind that, hurry!" he grabbed the bags of milk, urging her along as she paid the driver. He apparently had a key to this house, and let them in. He seemed less panicked and more chipper, whistling as he jogged up the steps. "Come along, Molly! We'll lose the optimum time for leaving this if you laze about in doorways!" She followed him up the stairs, hands beginning to burn from the plastic bags cutting into her fingers. At the landing, Sherlock had turned on the hall light, and was disappearing through the third door on the left, chuckling to himself.

"Is this for a case?" Molly asked, following at a slower pace, admiring the beautifully decorated home. She paused at a small table that sat in the hall. Portraits sat by the vase, and she bent to see the faces in the frames.

Sherlock was emptying the second bag of milk into the bathtub when he heard Molly shriek:

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!"

"What?" she appeared at the doorway, holding a picture. Within the frame was a photograph of himself and Mycroft, the day Mycroft had graduated middle school.

"Did we just break into your brother's home?"

"No, don't be silly," he said, returning to the task at hand. "That implies we used force to enter. I had a key."

"Sherlock!" She stamped her foot. "I didn't- why did you drag me out of the house and ten o'clock at night to fill your brother's bathtub with _milk?!_ "

"He asked me to," Sherlock answered. She folded her arms across her middle, raising an eyebrow. When she did not bend to help him, he set the bag of milk in the tub, turning to her. "Oh, _fine_ , it's a prank. He's out of the country for two weeks, and gave me strict instructions to behave myself. Naturally such a childish request was to be met with a childish response."

"So. Milk."

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "The temperature is expected to rise in the next three days, I expect the milk to sour in less than twenty-four hours, and be almost cheese by the time he returns."

"It seems a bit extreme," Molly said, looking at the tub and the still-to-be-emptied bags of milk at their feet. "Even for the pair of you." Sherlock hesitated then, as if he had more to say. "What?" Molly saw, of course. "What else is there? Did he make fun of you?" she smirked. "That's not so unordinary."

"No, you," Sherlock said. "If you must know."

"Me?!"

"I'd rather not discuss it,"

"Well I would!" Molly said, now quite upset that Mycroft (who she had thought had begun to warm to the idea of her and Sherlock) would say something off about her. "What did he say?"

"He may have made some off-hand comment that your last paper was not as brilliant as the London Times claimed it to be."

"What? I won an award for it!"

"Hm 'Doled out by imbeciles who have made so little progress to the field of science they are in danger of slipping backwards'. He might have claimed your paper to be taken from an earlier report made by German pathologist in 1954." Sherlock quoted. Her eyes flashed.

"Herbert Von Elken, yes, I used his findings, it was necessary, but I made sure to give him credit, and I certainly did not plagiarize- anyone with half a brain can see- they'd never have published it if it were!"

"I know," Sherlock said, beaming over his shoulder. She looked at him still opening bags of milk and setting them in the tub.

"And so this is what you came up with to get back at him?" Molly asked.

"What?"

"Well…it's a little…less than ingenious." Molly said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft hates the smell of milk that's off. Makes him dry-heave. According to my sources, he's returning from this trip with mummy and father." Molly's eyes glittered with mischief, and she picked up the bags of milk, coming to the side of the tub.

"Call John and Mary." Sherlock frowned.

"What for?"

"We're going to need more than this if we want to fill the tub." He retrieved his phone from his pocket, bending to press a kiss to her cheek.  
"There's my girl."


End file.
